


If I Should Fall From Grace With God

by neversaydie



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Anorexia, Brother Feels, Drunkenness, Eating Disorders, Gen, Homesickness, Other, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, Self-Destruction, Vomiting, weight loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversaydie/pseuds/neversaydie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time it was Murphy who stormed out, leaving Connor to flop down on his mattress, deflated. If he couldn't shout, shake, or slap some sense into his sibling, what could he do?  </p><p>Suddenly Ireland and Ma and her iron fist felt very far away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. St Catherine of Siena

**Author's Note:**

> This work deals with eating disorders in detail. Please be aware of this if this is a trigger for you. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please drop a comment if you're interested in this story continuing, I have a lot written but I'm not sure anyone will actually want to read it.

To begin with, Connor thought it was the boat.

Murphy had been horrendously seasick the whole way over, which they hadn't anticipated since the twins had never been on a boat before. Small island living had left them with a few gaps in their experience. When they'd finally reached land, he was fifteen pounds lighter and permanently green in the face. His colour had returned soon enough, but the inability to keep food down seemed to have remained.

So, first, Connor thought it was the trip over, and that Murph would get over it soon enough.

Then things got more complicated.

After a few weeks of Murphy barely eating, and only borrowing what little he ate, Connor started to get worried. He began suggesting that they saw a doctor, even though both knew that was a luxury they could ill afford in a country where you had to pay for your healthcare. Connor didn't care. Murph was suffering, and he'd borrow money from Doc if he had to, if it would help his twin look less like a walking corpse.

That's when Murphy's story changed, and Connor realised with a jolt what was really going on.

When Murphy realised his brother was serious about taking him to a doctor, he suddenly stopped claiming lingering seasickness as his ailment. Now it was because he wasn't used to American food. Everything tasted different to home, Connor agreed, but according to Murphy it all tasted _wrong_.

Too salty, too sweet, too greasy, too _much_.

It was the last complaint that hit Connor like a ton of bricks and brought reality down on him with the same crushing weight.

Murphy was avoiding food on purpose. He didn't want to eat.

Again.

It had been like this since they were little: if Murphy was in distress, he'd stop eating. When Uncle Billy had died, when he'd been bullied at school, when Connor had been moved into a different class in a misguided attempt to get the brothers to develop separately. Every time, Murphy started rejecting food. It was almost like he was doing penance, making a bargain with God to make things better in exchange for his suffering.

It hadn't happened for years, since they were fifteen and Murph spent a week in hospital. Connor screamed at him so loudly that he'd been thrown out of the ward, and Murphy had never starved himself again.

Until now, that is.

As soon as he realised what was happening, Connor went ballistic.

Not skinny teenagers anymore, the fight escalated to blows that counted, giving Murphy a black eye and Connor a split lip for their trouble. This time it was Murphy who stormed out, leaving his brother to flop down on his mattress, deflated. If he couldn't shout, shake, or slap some sense into his sibling, what could he do? He didn't think he'd felt quite so helpless in his life, and suddenly Ireland and Ma and her iron fist felt very far away.

There was no sign of Murphy until midnight, when Connor got a call from Doc. A quick trip down the block later and he came into MacGinty's out of the cold, to be met with Rocco's worried face.

"Where is he?"

The bar wasn't busy, mostly regulars, and more than a few eyes turned curiously to Connor at his entrance. He hoped Murphy hadn't been making that much a fool of himself.

"In the bathroom." Roc's usual nervy jittering was ramped up tenfold tonight, which only worried Connor more. "Did you guys fight? I never seen him like this."

"Aye, Doc said." He pushed a hand through his already-spiked hair and glared at a few intrusive gazes directed his way. "He left around two or so, must've been here since."

"Jeez. Was it serious?"

"A bit." Connor admitted. "Here, I'll go see to him. Tell Doc I said thanks for calling me and letting me know."

Rocco nodded that he would and Connor headed in the opposite direction to the bar, turning over his shoulder and raising a hand to Doc as he went. At least they had friends here to look out for them, which was a damn sight more than they'd had back home.

Connor just hoped they wouldn't give them too many reasons to look out for them. Not often, anyway.

The dingy men's room was silent when he entered, the only sound the buzzing that accompanied the flickering strip light on the ceiling. Connor paused as the door swung shut behind him, waiting for some indication of where his brother was.

"Murph?" He listened, but there was no response. Not a good sign.

Connor walked quietly down the short row of cubicles until he came across a familiar pair of boots sticking out of the bottom of the furthest stall. He rolled his eyes, fear bleeding into exasperation (because Jesus, Murph, have some fucking class) and raised his fist to rap on the graffitied door.

"Murph. Y'alright?" Still no reply, or even movement from within the stall.

Sudden anxiety sparking in his gut, Connor went into the neighbouring stall and climbed up on the toilet. He peered over the divide to check on his brother, and let out a harsh sigh at the sight that greeted him. Murphy was out cold, cheek smushed against the toilet seat and the front of his shirt wet with puke. Connor shut his eyes tightly for a moment and took a deep breath, trying to control his temper.

"Jesus Christ, Murph." He muttered, though only to himself as there was no way he'd be heard by his unconscious sibling.

Letting out a grunt of frustration, Connor hoisted himself over the stall divide and tried his best not to step on Murphy as he landed. The jolt from his brother dropping down beside him, however, was enough to bring Murphy out of his stupor.

"Conn?" He squinted up at him as Connor pulled his coat to rights. "World's all spinnin'."

"I'm not fuckin' surprised." Huffing, Connor squatted down next to his brother, taking in his clammy skin and the pallor of his cheeks. "Think you gave Doc a fright."

"Din' mean to." Murphy managed to grit out, before he blanched and retched over the toilet again.

Unsurprisingly, there was nothing left to come up but a thin streak of watery bile (if there had even been anything more than Guinness in the first place). Connor grimaced and put a hand on his twin's back, wishing there was something he could do to help despite his annoyance that Murphy had got himself in this state in the first place.

"M'scared Conn." Weakly, he gripped onto his brother's shirt. The gesture was so childlike that it made Connor sad in a way he couldn't explain, even just to himself.

"It's alright. You're alright." He grabbed some toilet paper and wiped Murphy's face, trying to clean him up a bit.

"Feels like m'dyin'."

"You're not dying, you're just really fuckin' drunk." Murphy gagged emptily once more, and Connor hoped he hadn't managed to poison himself properly this time. " _Really_ fuckin' drunk. You're gonna be fine though. I'm here, I've got you."

"Sorry I made you mad." Seemingly done worshipping the porcelain god for the moment, Murphy slumped back against the wall, eyes slipping closed. "Please don' leave."

"As if I'd leave you. Where the fuck would I go?" Connor tried to keep his tone light, but the genuine fear on his brother's face caused him to be serious again. "Not leaving, Murph. I'm not goin' anywhere, alright? Promise ya."

"Okay. Good. Don't." Opening his eyes again, Murphy tried to put a hand on his brother's face, but only managed to get the side of his neck with his impaired hand-eye coordination.

"Love you, Conn."

"Yeah, you too, you little shit." Connor detached the clammy hand from his neck and tried to figure out what they did next.

"C'mon, don't fall asleep. We need to get you home."

"Can't go home. Not that fuckin' boat." Murphy groaned, going a little green at the thought. Connor bit back a smile.

"The flat, eejit, not _home_ home." He stood up and surveyed the situation, forming one of his less auspicious plans.

Unlocking the door, Connor poked his head out and made sure they were alone. He didn't want Murphy to be embarrassed in front of the only friends they had in Boston, any more than he'd already embarrassed himself anyway. The coast clear, he hauled his brother to his feet and out of the stall, propping him up against the sinks. Connor set his coat aside and held a listing Murphy still as he started to pull off his twin's ruined t-shirt.

"Christ, Murph." Ribs stood out starkly from Murphy's chest, collarbones jutting and looking ready to pop through pale skin. "You've gotta start eating, man. Shit."

"Don' fight now." Murphy had already started to shiver in the cold bathroom. Connor stripped off his own black jumper, feeling the chill himself when he was left in just a t-shirt. "Ma said no fightin'."

"Alright Murph, alright. No fightin'." Keeping his voice as gentle and placating as he could, Connor helped his brother into the jumper, threading unresisting limbs through still-warm sleeves. "There. Better?"

"Better." Murphy agreed, not nodding in an attempt to keep the world around him as still as possible. "Don' leave, Conn!"

"M'not leaving." He'd only taken a step away, but apparently that was far enough for his drunk and needy brother. "You just stand still there and let me wash your face, alright?"

Vigorous application of a wet paper towel or two left Murphy as clean as he was getting. It put some colour back in his cheeks, at least. Connor ducked back into the stall to make sure there wasn't too much of a mess left for poor old Doc, before he came back to Murphy and shrugged his coat on.

"Now, can you walk out by yourself or do you want a hand?"

"I c'n walk." Murphy stepped away from the support of the sinks and promptly stumbled. Connor was ready to catch him, as always. "M'fine."

"Aye, y'look it." Connor raised his eyes to heaven with an irritated prayer for patience and tugged Murphy's arm across his shoulder. "C'mon you great lump, we'll get you home."

"S'Doc mad?" Murphy let his head fall onto his brother's shoulder, face lolling against his neck.

"Nah, he was just worried about ya."

"Wish Doc was our Da."

"Only cause he'd let you drink for free."

"Maybe." Murph let out a little giggle, and Connor tried not to laugh at him, at this soft side of his sibling that only came out when he was truly wasted. "I bet he gives nice hugs. Good Dad hugs."

"How the fuck d'you know about Dad hugs, you dick?" Connor shifted his brother's weight with a grunt. "You're still fuckin' heavy, no matter how skinny y'are. C'mon, let's go home."

"Don' let me fall over."

"Won't let you fall." Connor managed to hustle them out of the door, with some manoeuvring.

"Even if you deserve it." He added under his breath.


	2. Interlude: "We must see our present fight right through to the very end."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy had always wanted to be a Saint.

_Murphy had always wanted to be a Saint._

_Ma laughed when it said it, a little boy clinging to his more confident twin's hand on the day of their First Holy Communion. She could already tell that there was never going to be anyone for her boys but each other. Maybe they'd go into the priesthood together, that was what usually happened with these still, ethereal young men who turned their eyes only to heaven. It wasn't that they weren't the same boisterous, irritating handfuls they'd always been, but the older the twins got the more it seemed they'd live out their days doing the Lord's work._

_At the innocent comment, she'd ruffled Murphy's hair and told him he'd better keep saying his prayers, then. Connor piped up and said he was going to be a footballer, and that was the end of that._

_Murphy had always been fascinated by the ascetic Saints; Catherine of Siena, Anthony the Great. Saints who'd made themselves suffer in the name of God. Then he was glued to the television while Bobby Sands starved himself to death for his beliefs._

_Connor preferred learning about the Saints who'd faced violent ends; Sebastian and the arrows, Lucy with her eyes gouged out, Margaret Clitherow crushed beneath a door weighed down with stones. Saints who'd been made to suffer for their beliefs._

_Boys will be boys, even if they're pious, Ma thought._

_It wasn't until Murphy started fasting over Lent that she realised he'd been being literal about his ambitions._

_It wasn't until he didn't stop fasting once Lent ended that she realised something was wrong._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a quote from Bobby Sands. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and please drop a comment if you're interested in reading more! The next chapter is a beast, this one was just a short flashback.


	3. St Mungo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No safety net.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for just how long it took to get this up, but here's a pretty damn long chapter to go some way to make up for it. (I also realised the title and the metaphor running through it are there completely by accident, but sometimes these things work out!) Thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy.

Murphy had been weakly, miserably ill for two weeks before Connor decided that enough was enough.

"I'm taking you to the doctor."

"We can't fuckin' afford that." Murphy coughed wetly into his fist, trying to hide the wince at the assault on his bruised chest. "I'm fine."

"Murph, I'm countin' down the days til you're coughing up fuckin' blood here."

Reaching over to pull the blanket currently wrapped around his brother's shoulders tighter, Connor bit his lip in worry. Ireland and warmth and _home_ once again seemed far too far.

"We live in this shithole with no heat, it's the middle of winter, and you look like something out of fuckin' Dickens." His brother shot him a glare, but couldn't say anything in reply, he was struggling to breathe as it was.

"There's a free clinic over at St Mary's on Wednesdays and Thursdays, I asked Father Donnelly. The church'll help pay for your medicine too if I go and help the ol' wans clean a couple of nights a week, and when you're better you can fuckin' do it. They love a strappin' boy around."

He tried to smile and mask his worry as Murphy was again wracked with the coughing that had kept them both awake and breathless for nights on end.

"C'mon, don't argue. Let's get you dressed and we'll head down, alright? S'early enough there shouldn't be too much of a wait." For a moment, it looked like Murphy was in agreement, but he was shivering too much to do more than vaguely nod. "I'll help ya, c'mon."

Wrestling his brother into clothes was something Connor hadn't had to do very often. First when Murphy was ill when they were children, and more recently when he'd been too drunk to get himself up for work on time. At least Murphy was helping this time, forcing his weak spaghetti limbs through sleeves and into trouser legs, as Connor dressed him in all the shirts and jumpers they owned, barring their Sunday best and what he had on himself.

Just standing up made Murphy dizzy, so Connor made him drink some orange juice (they'd never had something that healthy in the apartment before, but there was a first time for everything) before trying again and finally getting him to stay on his feet.

Luckily, St Mary's church was only a few blocks away from where the twins lived, and they managed the walk without too much of a struggle, even if Connor had a firm hold of his brother's arm and was supporting most of his weight for the majority of the trip. They were greeted by regulars they knew from mass, and the old ladies clucked over Murphy as Connor rolled his eyes and sat him down.

Connor left his brother in their capable wrinkled hands and grabbed some forms from the makeshift, folding-table reception desk, barrelling through the needed information quickly. He supposed it helped that they'd had the same illnesses and allergies since they were children, since he finished filling in Murphy's details in a few minutes and came back to sit in the rickety seat next to him.

Murphy listed sideways to lean against him, his shivering forcing its way through Connor's coat and making him reconsider teasing Murph about his octogenarian fan club. Instead, Connor opted to sling an arm around his brother's shoulders, glaring at anyone who looked like they might consider it a sweet gesture. He was just trying to share the warmth he had.

Probably because of that pensioner fan club, or maybe because Murphy was clearly the sickest person there (Connor hoped it was the former), the brothers were only waiting for half an hour before they were called into the rectory at the back of the church. The rectory was being used as an improvised exam room, and the brothers mutually decided not to think about whether stripping off in such a place would be sacrilegious.

The doctor, or so Connor guessed by his white coat and harried air, came into the rectory and whisked the portable privacy curtain shut behind him (getting seen by a doctor in the church! Folks back home wouldn't believe it). He smiled in greeting, taking in Murphy shivering on the exam table and Connor standing protectively beside him, and glanced down at the forms they'd just filled out.

He was an older guy, looked to be second generation by his eyes and the curve of his jaw. When he spoke, he had just enough of the brogue twanging under his Boston to confirm Connor's assumptions. Every fucker around here was Irish somewhere along the line.

"Mr MacManus, Murphy." He gestured to Murphy, who nodded. "And so you must be Connor?" Connor also nodded. "Father Donnelly told me to expect you. How long have you been ill for Murphy?"

"About two weeks." Connor answered for him. The doctor glanced at him questioningly. "Sorry doc, he can't really speak without coughin' at the moment, and it hurts him."

"That's alright." The doctor smiled gently. The whole neighbourhood was familiar with the MacManus brothers and their Siamese twin deal. They were good lads, and he'd been told by numerous elderly regulars at his practice that he should 'see about that MacManus boy' after Murphy didn't turn up for mass two weeks in a row.

"So two weeks." A note on the clipboard the doctor held and Connor rubbed a comforting hand on Murphy's back, feeling the knobs of spine even through the layers of most of the clothes they owned. "And a bad cough? Any other symptoms?"

"He had a fever for a while, on and off. Never a bad one though, just running hot and cold." Connor filled in, obviously having rehearsed his list to make sure he didn't miss anything vital. "His glands are swollen up in his throat and he feels like he can't breathe. He's also lost a load of weight, but some of that was before he got the plague."

He didn't mention why his brother had lost weight, didn't see a reason to humiliate him over something unrelated. He felt Murphy's back relax under his hand as he said it: clearly his brother had been worried about that too.

As if to illustrate his catalogue of symptoms, Murphy started coughing again, almost gagging from the force and from his swollen throat contracting on itself. Used to the routine by now, Connor rubbed his back steadily until the fit subsided, knowing his brother started to panic when he thought he couldn't get enough air. The doctor frowned at hearing Murphy's cough, and made a few more notes on his clipboard before setting it aside on the desk he was commandeering for the duration of the free clinic.

"That does sound nasty. Don't worry Murphy, we'll get you fixed up." Keeping a cheery tone in his voice, he took a pair of latex gloves from a box on the desk and pulled them on. "Right, can you take your shirt off for me so I can listen to your chest?"

With some assistance from his brother, Murphy managed to struggle half-heartedly out of his layers until he was left in just his jeans and boots. The sight of his extremely thin form seemed to shock both the doctor and Connor, who hadn't realised his brother had lost _that much_ weight in such a short period of time. He'd been worried before, but now he was getting really anxious.

"Alright, I'm just going to listen to you breathe. This might be a bit cold." The doctor pressed the metal end of the stethoscope around his neck to Murphy's chest, making him hiss at the contact.

"Take a deep breath in and out for me."

Connor could hear the wheeze as his brother complied, and winced again at how long it had taken him to bully Murphy into seeing the doctor. If there turned out to be something really wrong with his brother he'd never forgive himself, and neither would Ma.

If one of them went home in a coffin then they both would. There were no two ways about it.

The doctor carried out his examination, listening to Murphy's breathing through his back, feeling under his jawline and shining a light down his throat while almost gagging him with a wooden stick. By the time he finished Murphy was shaking in the cold of the church hall, goose bumps rising on his pale flesh as he broke into another round of coughing before managing to get himself under control again. Connor went to help him get dressed before the doctor stopped him.

"Just one more thing, while you're not wearing so many layers." He bent under the exam table and fished out an electronic scale, which he turned on and calibrated with practiced fingers. "Could you take off your shoes and stand on this, please?"

Grudging, but too tired to argue, Murphy toed off his boots and slid off the exam table, trying hard not to sway too much on his feet as he stood on the scale. The red numbers flashed back at him before too long, _131lbs_ , and he gratefully returned to his seat, letting Connor help him pull his layers of clothing back on against the chill.

Connor, for his part, was trying to do the maths: what was 131lbs in stones? He still wasn't used to this bullshit American system of using different measurements to the rest of the world. As the doctor scribbled, Connor finished with the numbers and blanched, glancing sidelong at Murphy and feeling like he was really seeing him for the first time in a while. _9 stone_. Shit.

"Okay. Well, I don't have to tell you that you're pretty sick Murphy, but it doesn't seem to be too serious."

Connor let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding when the doctor made his pronouncement. Murphy kicked him lightly in the back of the leg, a silent 'told you so,' but his brother was too relieved to retaliate.

"My guess is that you got a bad case of tonsillitis that you didn't treat, and it developed into the nasty throat infection you've got now. I'll write you a prescription for some antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and painkillers. That should hopefully fix you right up before too long. Make sure you _finish_ the antibiotics, even if you're feeling better, or it could come back."

He finished writing the prescription in typical doctor's chicken scratch and tore it off the pad, handing it to Murphy who nodded his thanks.

"I also have a few more questions, if you don't mind." The boys nodded and the doctor sat back down, sinking heavily into his borrowed chair and looking them both over with a critical eye.

"Where are you boys living at the moment?"

"Heeler Street, just across from McGinty's." Connor supplied as Murphy sluggishly pulled his boots back on. He wasn't sure what the point of this was, and he wanted to get his brother home to bed so he could get these prescriptions filled.

"So I take it you rent from O'Connell?" The doctor huffed out an unamused laugh when they confirmed. "That slumlord. I'm guessing it's off the books: no heat, no hot water, one room?"

"There's hot water now and then." Connor shrugged. He didn't think this man was mocking them and their poor financial situation, but he bristled all the same. "We live at the top, the pipes aren't too good."

The older man looked sympathetic and Connor's hackles dropped some. Everyone around here was in the same boat, of course the doctor would be familiar with it.

"Look, I understand it's hard for guys like you. You're not long in the country, I don't know if you're even legal or not. You're working at the meat packing plant, someone said?"

Connor nodded.

"Yeah, I understand, we've all been there. But I'm telling you straight up that if you keep living in a place with no heat, full of rats probably, in this winter, your brother's going to get sick again. Heck, you'll probably get sick too. It's only because he lost so much weight and it weakened his immune system that he got it first."

"I'm not saying leave where you're living." He held up his hands as he saw the blond MacManus open his mouth to protest. "All I'm suggesting is that when it gets really cold you might want to come down and spend the night in the church mission or something, instead of freezing and getting yourselves sick up there."

"Hadn't thought of that." Connor admitted, feeling stupid for not thinking of the right way to keep his twin from getting into the shape he was in.

"It's just something to think about. You just need to make sure that you keep yourselves properly warm and fed and you'll have a fighting chance in the winter. It's always better to keep yourself healthy than have to deal with an illness."

The doctor looked down at his clipboard again and tapped his pen against it, a frown crossing his wrinkled forehead before he looked at the brothers again.

"Ah, yes. If you could head back into the waiting area for a minute Connor, there's a few things I need to discuss with Murphy in private."

Thrown for a loop, Connor glanced over at his twin, who looked equally surprised at the request but nodded that he'd be fine. Hoping the strain of talking with what little voice he had left didn't make his brother cough too much, Connor traipsed back into the waiting area and sat down heavily in a metal fold-out chair.

Pulling out the prescriptions Murphy had shoved into his hand, he winced as he mentally totted up the cost of the drugs and sent up a quick prayer of thanks that the church was going to help them pay. The doctor was right, he couldn't let them get into this position again, not only because he didn't want either him or Murphy suffering, but because they were too proud to be charity cases if they could help it. He'd had to talk the priest into letting them pay the church back for the medicine with cleaning and fixing the place up, initially he'd wanted nothing in return.

The MacManus brothers could pay their way, just not with money right now.

Neither could anyone here, if the state of everyone in the waiting room was anything to go by. The winter had hit everyone hard, it seemed, trust them to come to Boston right before the worst winter in twenty years. In Ireland it was wet and cold, but nothing like the piercing, freezing wind that rattled through their apartment every day here.

Connor sighed to himself and rubbed a hand over his face wearily. He wondered, once again, if they'd made the right choice by coming here and leaving everything they knew behind. There was no safety net here, and it felt like they were starting to wobble on the wire they walked.

"If you don't treat infections like this then they can damage your heart. Don't leave it so long before seeing a doctor again."

He heard the doctor's admonishment and Murphy's answering croak over his shoulder and stood up, meeting his brother halfway across the room. The doctor said his goodbyes (as Connor gave his profuse thanks) and called in his next patient from the slowly-filling waiting area, whisking them off to the temporary exam room the boys had just occupied.

Beside him Murphy was shaking like a leaf, something Connor didn't realise until his brother tugged on his sleeve like he had when they were children.

"C'n we go home?"

The rasped question cost him dearly, and Murphy almost doubled over at the coughing fit it triggered. Gripping his arm tightly, Connor led him steadily outside to sit on the church steps and catch his breath, soaking up some faint heat from the weak winter sun that glanced over them. It was a few minutes before he tried to get Murphy to speak again.

"Y'alright now?" Murphy nodded, letting his head drop wearily to rest on his brother's shoulder, rough fabric of his pea coat seeming extremely comfortable at that moment. "What did the doc want?"

"Dunno."

"What d'you mean you dunno?" Connor frowned, peering down at the sliver of his brother's clammy face that he could see from his angle. "He just spoke t'you five minutes ago."

"I know, but-" he was cut off by another weak bout of coughing. Connor leaned back, holding him at arm's length to get a better look. He took in the pallor of his brother's face and his unnaturally bright eyes and twigged, putting a cool palm to Murphy's forehead and wincing at the heat radiating off his skin.

"Alright, you've got yourself a fever and you don't know what the fuck's goin' on now, right?" Murphy nodded vaguely, clearly not taking much in. "C'mon then eejit, let's get you home. Ma'd kill me if she knew I'd had you out the house this long in this state."

"'Kay." Murphy was even less steady on his feet that before, but he stood as firm as he could and refused to fall as Connor helped him off the steps and back onto the street.

As long as they held each other up, maybe they wouldn't need the safety net after all.

Maybe they wouldn't fall.


	4. Interlude: "Angels are warriors of God."

_The light-headedness made him feel closer to God._

_That's how he described it to Connor, right before his brother screamed at him and got himself kicked out of the ward Murphy was being treated on._

_Light, like he could close his eyes and get taken away on the breeze. Weightless, like an angel. Like he could be called to His service at any minute._

_"It doesn't make you closer to God, you fuckin' eejit. You're fuckin' hallucinating because you haven't eaten for days!"_

_Connor got banned from the ward. Murphy got tube-fed for a week._

_It was the longest they'd ever spent apart, and they promised each other it wouldn't happen again._


End file.
